Our repertoire included Shrimp Wiggle and chocolate pudding and some kind of cake baked in a square tin that was impossible to clean. And I looked on the whole thing as a hideous waste of time when there were so many interesting things to do in life.

    My other preparation for half a life spent in the kitchen was clearing the table at home and wiping the dishes. My mother had a reputation as the best cook in town, although she felt several of her friends were really more accomplished. she liked Mrs. Ruche's bread better and Alma's golden egg noodles, and Mrs. Rector's cloverleaf rolls were, she said, much lighter than hers. Nevertheless, she managed to feed any number of father's college students, plus her town friends, without ever seeming to feel hurried. She was a round, rosy woman with flyaway silk-brown hair and smiling eyes, and she never lost her composure even if Father banged in at five-thirty with three or four men he had collected on campus. He never, of course, telephoned her ahead of time because he didn't like telephones.

    How often did I bitterly regret never learning to cook when I was right at home with a built-in opportunity! I was, alas, upstairs, reading poetry and trying to make a sonnet come out even.

    I was, however, always available for licking the cake batter from the bowl or consuming the first hot honey-nut bun that came from the pan or eating the round crispy balls that I called the holes in the doughnuts. And it may be that a small bit of mother's skill sank in by osmosis, but not enough to carry me to an easy victory when I began housekeeping as a bride. Far from it, I was a disaster in the kitchen.

    I finally learned to stand by the stove and never take my eyes from the carrots or anything else that was boiling. I learned that pies are better if the broiler isn't on as they bake. I learned that getting everything done at the same time requires anguished concern. Too many times, we were eating the potatoes as a separate course, which they aren't. I learned that fried chicken is best when it isn't bloody red at the bone and black outside. And I learned how to make lemon meringue pie, after making it daily for two weeks. I didn't make it for years afterward.

    And, in the end, I learned that cooking is not only a basic art but more fun than almost anything. It has a universal appeal because eating is so daily and those few forlorn souls who "only eat to live" are a minority and should go to a doctor. A well-cooked, well-seasoned meal provides something of that gracious living we often think has gone. Few people can sparkle if they are sawing away at an overdone wedge of meat, but a tender, juicy slice comfortably provided with pan gravy inspires good conversation and suggests the world is worth saving. A cheese soufflé, delicate and golden, lifts the spirits. I don't like desserts except for the Herman Smith's ginger mold, but I like the sigh of pleasure when I bring in a pineapple upside-down cake. After all, as my daughter says, some people even like cream with their coffee.

    When my love affair with cooking got really under way, I began to hunt recipes. I exchanged them with friends the way Jill who lived with me, was exchanging bulbs and cuttings and special seeds with other gardeners. It is my firm belief that an unshared recipe is a poor thing. Once you invent something delicious, it should be shouted from the rooftops, if you can climb to a rooftop. A recipe is like a poem, and a poem is not to be shut away in a drawer but read to anyone who will listen. I know some women who keep their best achievement a dead secret, but they do not need to. Their identity goes along with it, for that particular treasure will always be known as Mrs. Nicholson's oyster scallop or Joan's flounder bake. The creator of a perfect recipe is associated with it always.

    Fortunately, the secret-keepers in my life have been few, since most women, and most men too, will copy down their best recipe half an hour after you meet them. Swank restaurants are different. I once ate every day for a week in a special French place trying to figure out a fabulous dish. I approximated it, but it lacked something. What it lacked was 1/3 cup Hollandaise sauce. Eventually I got the recipe and it was Chicken Divan and the Hollandaise was important. I had no luck at all with a request from a friend to tell her how to make a salad dressing she had been served in her home town in Illinois. She said it was out of this world and could I tell her how to make it, as they wouldn't. It was, she said, spicy but not too spicy. It didn't seem feasible to ask her to steal a teaspoonful and mail it to me to taste!

    I like the modern kitchens which make cooking easier. I began cooking in a flat (which I suppose would be glorified as a duplex now). The kitchen was sort of a woodshed with an iron sink, wooden drainboard, a gas stove with rusty burners, a wooden table, and a wooden icebox with a hole cut in the floor for the drippings to go through. Later I cooked in one of those big city apartments. The kitchen window gave on a dank well and people in upper apartments often threw milk bottles down to crash below. The kitchen was big enough for two people to stand in, providing one stood sidewise. The gas stove stood on weak legs and it leaked gas. The oven door had to be propped shut when in use because it had a way of flinging itself open just as a soufflé was almost done. The grids (if that is what you call them) were not even, since the stove top slanted to the left. This meant one part of a pan would be high and dry another was swimming in liquid. I kept most most of the canned goods in the hall closet along with the cleaning supplies and the umbrellas and wraps. There were a couple of wooden cupboards but they were too high to get at without a stepladder. We didn't room enough for a stepladder and had to borrow one from the janitor six floors down in case I purely needed the turkey platter.

    Then, when we moved to the country, I found two kitchens at Stillmeadow. We have always called them the middle kitchen and the back kitchen, and now and then someone asks where is the front kitchen. There isn't any. Two kitchens do give plenty of space, and ours were full of children, cockers, Irish setters, and two cats. The middle kitchen had the refrigerator, stove, sink, and some wide open shelves (it had been the milk room). Jill made a coffin-like wooden box to hold the utensils and we kept it on the radiator. The radiator top was curved, so frequently the whole box crashed to the floor scattering puppies, cats, and eggbeaters and potato mashers all over everything. The back kitchen had an ancient wood range which heated the room in winter and roasted it in summer. I loved it dearly even when we had to get up at midnight on a cold night to put more wood in the firebox.

    It is my theory that push-button heat is wonderful, but that you can get more gradations of temperature on the top of an old range by moving the pots and kettles just a quarter of an inch here or there. I also loved the slightly smoky flavor that comes from the oven as the turkey is brought out. I even liked dipping hot water from the reservoir. However, in time we modernized the kitchens, and the old stove retired in favor of counter space and good storage cabinets.

    For my kind of cook, counter space is never enough. how I admire the woman who tells you dinner is served, and, as she brings in the golden popovers, I offer to fetch the salad, and I see the kitchen looking as if it were ready to be photographed for a magazine. These divine creatures are able to "wash up as they go along." Whereas Jill used to say anybody would know I had been in the kitchen because I had a gift for leaving everything in a mess. I couldn't, she observed, make an omelet without scattering things all over the place. I have tried to improve but I am a complete failure. I cannot seem to concentrate on the meal itself and keep scouring pans and cleaning egg beaters. After guests have departed, I often take one look at the kitchen and wonder whether it wouldn't be simpler just to move away.

    I heartily believe in a place for everything and everything in it's place, but never am sure just where I put the double boiler the last time. I was reminded of this last summer when I was on Cape Cod and my daughter kept house at Stillmeadow. She called up long distance one night and said,

"Mama, can you tell me where the orange juicer might be? I'm halfway through cranberry mousse and ---"

"Look under the ring moulds," I suggested, "and then behind the Swedish casserole in the cupboard by the sink. It's there somewhere. If you can't find it, try using the top of a milk bottle."

    I have no trouble locating my herbs, spices, and seasonings because they are ranged on a narrow shelf directly over the cooking counter and I recommend such a shelf for every kitchen. It may be fastened by brackets from a hardware store, and if possible should not be directly over the range because the heat does no good. It is also a great help to hang the most-needed utensils over or near the range.

    Today's homemakers have almost everything from self-defrosting refrigerators to automatic coffee makers. Or they can look forward to possessing them as soon as the budget allows. One of my favorites is the electric skillet which cooks fried chicken, beef stew, pancakes, and dozens of other things. Then I love my electric knife sharpener for I never acquired the art of sharpening knives on a whetstone. I usually sharpened my fingers. An electric beater is a miracle. I remember very well beating egg whites with a flat wire thing with the egg whites lying simply on a platter until I nearly gave up. In those days, I only made angel food cakes for birthdays. A pressure cooker is not only a timesaver but makes everything savory as well as tender. It means a working woman can dash in at night and serve the kind of pot roast with vegetables that used to take half a day.

    I couldn't catalogue the new products that are now available to make cooking easier and better. The frozen meats, fish, fowl, vegetables, and fruits along with the good packaged mixes and the improved distribution of fresh products mean that nothing is ever out of season any more. You can have oysters in July and strawberries in January. And now there is a new method of processing food which may be even more remarkable - some kind of flash-dry affair which I cannot understand. The new non-lumpable flour is a mystery to me too, but I enjoy it.

    For myself, I have reservations about the frozen dinners. I used them during an emergency time when I was spending all day at a hospital and coming home late. Perhaps if I had taken all the various dibs and dabs out and done things to them, I'd have liked them better. On the other hand, the frozen au gratin potatoes, spinach soufflés, and so on, are fine and very good to keep on hand in the freezer. If you are cooking for a big family, they are expensive and do not serve as many as they claim - at least not for most people.

    But servings are impossible to estimate. for instance, when Barbara and I were typing recipes for this book, I read one aloud and said confidently, "Serves 6."
    "Slim could eat all that by himself." she said, referring to her tall, lean husband.

    So every cook has to consider who is going to eat what, and if it is spaghetti, could they live on it or does it bore them? And have they been out chopping firewood or dashing to catch a commuting train, or have they been lounging by a good fire reading the latest spy story?

    Most of us dream of being the perfect hostess. This means being well organized far enough ahead of time to allow for a hot bath, a short rest, and time to put on a pretty frock and spray yourself with White Lilac. This never, never  happens to me. Five minutes before I begin to jump into the shower, the plumber comes to fix the washing machine. This involves his going down to the cellar and fussing with the fuse box while I rush around alertly turning on lights as he checks. Or, as I glance out of the window, I see guests coming down the flagstone walk and I also see a couple of stray cows tramping the roses. Or the phone rings and someone has arrived unexpectedly at Seymour (the nearest town) and could I pick him up.

    I wonder about those women I read of in the magazines who greet their guests feeling relaxed and casual. Even should they have help in the kitchen, does the current never go off as the rolls go in? Does no banished child ever plunge headfirst down the stairs or arrive with a stray kitten that needs attention IMMEDIATELY? And the guests - ah, are they always on time or does their car break down twenty miles away? Is there never a tie-up in city traffic resulting in their turning up an hour and a half late? Do they never take the wrong road or go to 85th instead of 86th Street?

    I wonder. . .
    At Stillmeadow, there is no predicting. But, in the end, we always manage to sit down to a candle-lit table and the rib roast is not overdone and the Yorkshire pudding is crusty and tender with rich juices bubbling at the edges and the salad is unwilted. I even have remembered to take the cheese from the refrigerator so it has come to room temperature, and I did not park the fruit bowl on the radiator! When everyone takes their first mouthful and breathes a happy sigh, that is the time I relax and become the easy gracious hostess. My hair may not look like a Vogue illustration and my face is shiny and I never did find time to slip into that fresh frock, but I am a very happy woman.

    One thing I have learned not to do and that is apologize for everything and anything. This is because I have been a guest myself and been pretty bored when the main topic of conversation consisted of the hostess explaining that nothing was really as good as it should be. Then you spend the whole dinner hour reassuring her and as you finally say good night, she says, "I am sorry the rolls were just not quite right."
    "Tasted all right to me," you mumble; "ate three."

    But you wish people could take out their insecurities somewhere other than in the kitchen, especially if they cook to perfection.

    Another thing I learned after a year or so of struggle in the kitchen. It is better to serve something you know how to make than to try a fancy new dish. I am reminded of my favorite uncle who had a spectacular voice but would never sing anything for company that he had gone over before. He just kept rehearsing strange numbers and stopping in the middle to begin again. I rarely;y heard him sing a whole aria or ballad. It is better to rehearse ahead of time on the family because they can't do anything about it anyway and have to put up with you. My family ate a number of soufflé soups before I felt secure with a soufflé. And my first popovers were pried from the pan with a carving knife.

    I must say a word about cooking times. The reason nobody can accurately estimate how long any given thing should cook is that a stove is a very personal being. Theoretically an oven should be calibrated by an expert frequently, but I never lived where any expert could come and do that . Top burners get tired and in time do not really go on High when they say they are. But every cook knows the temperament of her or his own range and adjusts to it. My own range would burn anything to a crisp if I put it up to 400°. My best front burner will not, on the other hand, boil potatoes if I put it on second. They sit and simmer endlessly. My small back burner must be treated with caution because a pan of bacon will turn to ash in no time.

    But since we are old and devoted friends, we understand each other. I have collected cook books for years, but the cooking time is between me and my range. As far as roasts go, I smell when they are done. For baked things, I see when they draw away from the edges of the pan and look stable in the middle. for top-stove cooking, I use a two-tined fork which is a very old and dear one and never fails. When it slides both tines in with ease, I turn off the heat.

    Most things, I have found, continue to cook even with the heat off, and I allow for that while I am getting the muffins out of the muffin tins. A roast or turkey will keep gently cooking while you get the platter warm and find the carving set. No matter how agile you are, some time elapses from stove to table, and in my book this is a continuance of the cooking time. My general tendency is to cut cooking time of recipe I find about a quarter. I don't get in a stew about the vitamins because I think in this country we get them, by and large, but I just like vegetables with some personality left and meat that is juicy and tender instead of leathery and dry. I don't like soupy boiled potatoes or asparagus that you could glue stamps on with. But this may be a personal preference.

    Most of my cook books get involved with calories. As one who has dieted off and on for years, I take a firm stand on this. When I diet, I do not try to make gourmet meals dishes without the gourmet ingredients. I broil the chop and dish up the cottage cheese and munch the lettuce. But when I cook a decent meal, I do not substitute non-calorie ingredients. I make it the way it was meant to be. If the recipe calls for sour cream, that is what I use. If sugar is called for, I use sugar and not a synthetic flavorer. I think a lot of women fight the battle of the bulge trying to make something taste like something it can never taste like.

    The recipes in my personal cook book have met two tests. They call for ingredients usually available and they are economical with time. Occasionally, if there is a free day, I enjoy putting a stack of records on the machine and just giving myself up to hours with the range. But like most women today, I depend on recipes which do not call for long preparation. And I think a simple, well-seasoned dish always gets a warm welcome.

          Happy Cooking !

From  Gladys Taber's Stillmeadow Cook Book.